Whiskers & Smoke Read Online Free Page A

rocking-chairs out here—and a hammock swing. And—”
    â€œHurry up,” Celia said. “We don’t want mosquitoes getting into the house. They’ve got those, too.”
    â€œI like the hanging baskets.” Unburdened by luggage, Tessa skipped into the hallway. I went back to the car for the rest of our cases.
    Celia had gone through the house snapping on lights. When I entered, the screen door slamming behind me, I found everyone in the large cosy living-room that ran parallel with the long wide porch outside. Two wide windows faced on to the porch and I could quite see how convenient it would be on rainy days to send the children out to play on the porch and still be able to keep an eye on them from the living-room. If we ever had any rainy days here. I said as much to Celia.
    â€œThat’s a proper veranda,” she corrected me. “The old-timers still call it a pee-azza.” She gave every letter full value, accentuating a Yankee twang. “Most of the older houses have them. I can see that they’re quite attractive—if
you like that sort of thing. We have a modern Cape Cod Cottage with a patio, ourselves.”
    â€œI know. You’ve sent me pictures. I’m looking forward to seeing it.”
    â€œYou’d better see this house first.” I winced inwardly as Celia stubbed out a cigarette in a delicate glass bowl. She did not succeed in extinguishing it completely. She sailed out of the room without a backward glance at the thin acrid wisps of smoke still curling upwards from the smouldering stub. I hesitated, but the sides of the bowl were curved and steep; the cigarette could be left to burn itself out safely. Besides, she had halted in the doorway and was now looking back at me impatiently, waiting for me to follow her. It could look too pointed—perhaps reproachful—if I stopped to extinguish the cigarette while she was watching.
    â€œBring your cases,” Celia directed. “We’ll start upstairs. You can leave your things in the bedrooms.”
    I picked up Tessa’s small case and my own; I would carry the heavy cases up later when the children couldn’t watch. Already, Timothy was fretting because he was not big enough to manage them and Tessa was upset because her arm prevented her from carrying even a light case.
    â€œRosemary, you’ll have the master bedroom, of course.” Celia flung open the door and switched on the light.
    â€œIt’s beautiful.” I looked around the opulent room thus revealed. A dark red richly-patterned Oriental rug covered the gleaming pine floorboards, an enormous double bed dominated the room, reflected in both the dressing-table
mirror and a full-length pier glass in one corner. The ubiquitous rocking-chair was also present.
    â€œI knew you’d like it,” Celia said with satisfaction. “Now, let’s get the children settled. Tessa, you’ll have Donna’s room. Timothy, you’ll have Donald’s.”
    After that, it was a whirlwind tour. Celia raced us from room to room without giving us time to take them in.
    â€œThe bathroom … the guest rooms—” Celia opened doors briefly and closed them again—“but you won’t need to worry about that. You don’t know anyone, so you won’t be having guests.” She shut the last door with finality and was half way down the stairs before we could follow.
    On the ground floor, she rushed us from living-room to Arnold’s study, to dining-room, to kitchen—and then down into the cellar.
    Somewhere along the way, she had found time to light another cigarette but not to find an ashtray. A trail of ashes marked our progress through the house, not deliberately flicked off, just dropping off from their own weight and unnoticed by Celia in her overriding preoccupation.
    â€œWhen I first came to this country,” Celia told us, “they called basement rooms like this the